Short Story: Wholegrain

Short Story: Wholegrain

Janice stared at the shop assistant through thick plastic-rimmed spectacles, breathing heavily.

"Is it wholegrain?"

"What?"

Kimmy, the shop assistant, stared back, irritated. She’d known Janice for years. They weren’t exactly friends but way back they’d gone to the local school together and as teenagers regularly used to dog off gym and sit in the bus shelter eating chips. Now Janice came into the shop every day for her lunchtime pie, and each day she was definitely getting more and more awkward. Today was Friday, and it was ten past one, the worst possible time for Janice to start her nonsense. On top of which, Lesley, the part-timer who usually did the chips and the heated items, had phoned in sick that morning. Not for the first time.

"I’ve been up all night with the runs," she’d croaked. "They said on the Food Hygiene course you’re supposed to stay off if you’ve a tummy upset. I wouldn’t want to put anyone at risk."

At risk nothing, thought Kimmy. Knackered, more like. Lesley would have been giving it laldy at the karaoke at the Crown last night, helped on by a few rum and peps, then she’d have shagged Tricky McPhee, the pub owner, in the back room after the Thursday lock-in. As per usual.

"Fine," she’d said sourly, through gritted teeth. "Look after yourself and come back when you’re ready." Not that there was any danger she’d return any sooner. Tricky had his finger in an awful lot of pies, so it was popularly said; he also owned the bakery franchise, which ensured that no matter how many sickies she took, Lesley would never be out of a job, unless he got fed up of her, and there was no sign of that as yet. Some said they didn’t blame him for playing away, what with his wife being in a wheelchair and all, but to Kimmy that seemed to make it worse. Especially when he was at it hammer and tongs with Lesley and the wife none the wiser in the flat up the stairs and unable to move. At least you had to hope she was none the wiser. Awful if she could hear. Mind you, she didn’t blame Lesley for drinking – anyone would need a few rums before contemplating shagging that goat?

Janice placed her fingertips on the greasy glass-topped counter, and leaned forward slightly.

"The pie. Is it wholegrain?"

"Janice," said Kimmy, "this is Begg's the Baker's. It's a meat pie. Take a wild guess."

"I don’t want to guess. I want to know for sure. I only eat wholegrain now. I started this morning. It stops heart attacks and cancer. Lorraine Kelly eats wholegrain and it said on LK Today to check the packet for ingredients, but loose pies don't have packets."

"Can't help you there, Janice. Like I said, take a guess. I’ve not seen Lorraine eat a Begg’s pie lately, that’s for sure."

"For fuck’s sake," muttered the man behind Janice. He was wearing a yellow workman’s jacket and heavy boots. "Who gives a fuck what Lorraine Kelly eats?"

Kimmy glared at him. She’d been to school with him too. Kenny. He worked for the council at the local skip, and was a right pain in the neck. A loudmouth. He’d always been like that; at school he was the type who’d make snowballs with stones in them and liked to give bad Chinese burns, as long his victims were smaller than he was and didn’t have big brothers or sisters. A definite whiff of all mouth and no trousers about him.

The queue was becoming restive, and Kimmy knew she had to assert her authority before mutiny developed. Kenny coughed slightly and turned away from her hostile stare to look at the bakery display in the window, where a fly hovered above two empty Pavlova bases and a tray of custard slices.

Janice breathed heavily for a moment or two, scratching rapidly inside her left nostril with a well-chewed forefinger, and stared at Kimmy's tightly folded arms. "I guess it is then."

"Wholegrain? You're guessing a Begg's meat pie is wholegrain?"

"Yes, I guess that."

Kenny stifled a snigger.

"OK Janice. You tell yourself what you like. You might even start believing it. Do you want one?"

"No, I want two. One for my dinner, and one for my tea. And I'll take a couple of softies as well. Are they wholegrain?"

Kimmy picked one up, and held it under Janice’s nose. "Look, Janice. They’re called softies. That’s because they’re made out of soft, white, flour. See?"

" Why don’t you get a health loaf? That’s wholegrain," suggested a well-dressed woman near the door.

"Don’t encourage her," said Kimmy. "She knows what she’s doing." Holding up the bloody queue, and enjoying all the attention, that’s what.

"I don’t like health loaf. The hard bits get stuck in my teeth."

"I know what you mean," said the woman near the door. "I cracked a tooth on a bit of wholegrain once. They tell you to eat it then you end up breaking your teeth."

"Janice…"

"I’ll take the softies anyway. And a rhubarb pie. That’ll go towards my five a day. Make that two."

"Is that for your breakfast?" mimicked Kenny, in a whiny voice.

"Right you are." Kimmy dropped the pies into a paper bag and twirled it efficiently, twisting the corners closed. "Want a carrier?"

"No. You're not supposed to use bags now. They destroy the environment."

"Up to you, Janice. It's just you've got to get home on the bus with that lot, haven't you? Loose products. Where you going to put them? In your pockets?"

"For fuck's sake!" Kenny interrupted, thrusting his face over Janice's shoulder. "We're all dying of starvation back here!"

"Take a poly bag, Janice. The rhubarb pies don't half leak."

"No. I don't want one."

"Fine." Kimmy plonked the items on the counter. "That'll be four pounds sixty."

Janice fumbled in her pocket and took out a handful of change. "I was saving this on the mantelpiece…"

Kenny covered his eyes. "Anyone got any paracetamol? I think I want to top myself."

Janice paused and turned to face him. Looking him in the eye, she said, "When it’s your turn at the counter, Kenny, Kimmy will give you her full attention. Until then, please allow me some privacy. Thank you. And by the way, I wouldn't advise taking an overdose of paracetamol. It's a very slow and painful death. I read about it in Real Crime magazine."

Kenny guffawed. "Oh well, let's not do that then. We can't have slow and painful deaths. We want to get it over with as fast as possible, don't we? Forget wholegrain, Janice. We want to scoff as many pies as we can, and all have fucking heart attacks - before we do the other thing."

Janice frowned. "What other thing?"

Kenny pushed his face towards her, and whispered loudly, "Murder. Murder most foul."

Janice raised her chin. "I hope you don't mean me."

"What would give you that idea?"

Janice put a pile of coppers on the counter. "I think you'll find that's two pounds eighty four," she said primly. She reached into her inside pocket and took out her purse. "And here's three pound coins."

Kimmy was whisking two pence off the counter and counting them under her breath.

"Fifty two fifty four fifty six fifty eight sixty…two four six…"

"Clickety click!" shouted someone.

Kimmy shook her head in resignation and scooped up the coins. "I'll take your word for it Janice. If it comes out short I'll put the extra in myself." Anything to get her out of the shop.

"Thanks, Kimmy."

"But you've been short-changed. She gave you three pounds eighty four. Her things came to four pounds sixty." It was the well-dressed woman at the back.

"No, she hasn't. She's given her five pounds eighty four." It was another woman from the back, who had recently joined the queue. "Three pound coins, and two pounds eighty four in coppers. She's due…one pound twenty four change."

"Bloody hell," said Kenny, "I’ve been in this queue for twenty bloody minutes and my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Give me two steak pies and a large yum yum, for fuck’s sake."

Janice stood to one side to allow him access to the counter while she tried to arrange her packages.

"Maybe I should have a carrier after all, Kimmy."

"Well, you can wait a fucking minute while I get my dinner. Some of us work, you know. Some of us are on our lunch breaks and we need to fucking eat," said Kenny.

"I think I’m just going to pop over to Boots sandwich counter," murmured the well-dressed woman at the back. "I’d prefer one of their Healthy Options anyway."

"I’m not," said the other woman. She was dressed in the navy cardigan of an HBOS teller. "I’ve been here for twenty minutes as well. I’m not giving in now."

"Hot or cold?" asked Kimmy briskly.

"Eh?"

"The pies."

"Oh - hot."

Kimmy reached into the hot plate and hesitated. "I’m sorry, Kenny. There’s only one pie heated. I can put a cold one in the micro for you if you like? Take a couple of minutes?"

Kenny rested both hands on the counter and leaned forwards. "For…"

Before he could continue, Janice said, "I work."

Kenny swivelled round to look at her, transferring one hand to a hip.

"Work? A loser like you? I bet you’re a lia-fucking-bility."

"I’m not a liability," continued Janice. "I help out at the Sunshine Club, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I do the whist nights as well. I do all the dishes and wipe the tables. Everyone says they couldn’t manage without me. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Kenny, I think your language is atrocious."

"It’s true," put in Kimmy. "My gran goes…"

"Don’t you fucking start," said Kenny. "I don’t want to know about your pishy old gran. I want my fucking dinner. Two steak pies and a large fucking yum yum."

"Don’t talk about my gran like that!" said Kimmy, outraged.

"Anyway, it’s not a real job, at the fucking Sunshine Club. It’s not like you get paid, is it?"

Janice hung her head. "It means a lot to me, that job. Gets me out."

The well-dressed woman at the back left discreetly and crossed the street heading for Boots.

The HBOS teller coughed loudly. "Do you think I could get served any time soon? I’ve to be back at two. "

Half a dozen new customers were crowded into the doorway. School children. "Any chance of some chips?" shouted one.

"The fryer’s off sick," advised the HBOS teller.

"Not shagger Lesley?" sniggered a teenager.

"Shagger Lesley, shagger Lesley!" chanted the children.

"I wouldn’t know her name," replied the HBOS teller primly.

"Do you want it hot or not?" snapped Kimmy.

"What?"

"Your second fucking pie!"

"Oh! Swearing at the customers now, is it!" shouted Kenny, triumphantly.

"Dragged her down to your level," said Janice. "It’s the strain. It isn’t easy, working behind that counter. Especially by yourself."

Kimmy threw the steak pie into the microwave and pressed the timer.

"Couple of minutes. Here." She thrust a plastic carrier bag towards Janice, and rubbed her hands through her hair, dislodging her paper mobcap, which she removed and flung into a corner.

"The rhubarb pies are leaking."

"I told you they would."

"Were they baked in a chipped enamel dish?" asked Janice.

The microwave pinged.

"What? I honestly have no idea. No, I doubt it. I think it’s all done in a sort of…metal tray thing. Why?"

"I read in Real Crime magazine that if you cook rhubarb in a chipped enamel dish, arsenic comes out. You can get poisoned."

"Anyone got any chipped enamel dishes?" called Kenny. "Quick! We’ve got an opportunity here!"

"Chips chips chips chips!" chanted the schoolchildren. More of them had piled into the doorway.

"SHUT UP!" Kimmy shouted, whacking a metal soup ladle on to the top of the microwave. There was a brief, shocked hush.

"I’d better head off," said Janice quietly, clutching her plastic carrier and pushing her way through the throng at the door. "Say hiya to your gran for me. I’ll see her next week at the Sunshine Club."

"There’s your fucking dinner Kenny. Fucking choke on it, will you?" Kimmy rammed the two steaming pies into a polystyrene container and slammed it on the counter.

"Eh…forgotten something, haven’t we? Sauce please!"

"Sauce my arse. Next?"

"Excuse me? What’s your game, talking to decent customers like that, Kimmy?"

It was Tricky McPhee, standing in the doorway of the back shop, large as life and twice, or maybe three or four times, as ugly. His thinning black hair was greased back and his face was pockmarked and flushed. He wore a beige V-necked jumper with a brown stain down the front and his thumbs were stuck in the pockets of his too-tight chinos. A half-moon of white hairy stomach protruded between waistband and jumper. As he spoke the dull gleam of a gold tooth caught the eye.

"I’m awfully sorry, Tricky…"

"Mr McPhee, if you don’t mind."

"Mr McPhee. I’m sorry, I’ve just had a very busy morning. Lesley’s…"

"Never mind Lesley. Lesley’s history. I want a wee word with you in the back shop after we’ve finished serving all these NICE CUSTOMERS." And the gold tooth gleamed again as he addressed the queue.

"Come on folks – who’s first? Kenny, put your money away, I’m not taking a penny off you after the way Kimmy spoke to you. Okay? Normal service resumed."

"Buckshee dinner! Suits me!" said Kenny. "Cheers, Tricky! I’ll buy you a pint in the Crown tonight."

"No bother. I’ll even throw in a free rhubarb pie."

"Er…no, you’re all right, Tricky. I’ve never been too fond of rhubarb actually."

After the rush was over, Tricky beckoned Kimmy into the back shop.

"That’s me finished, Mr McPhee. Sorry about the carry-on earlier. Can I get my week’s wages now, and I’ll be off?"

"Not so fast, Kimmy," he said, perching on a stool by the safe, and patting his thigh. Kimmy could see a set of keys pressing through the material of his chinos where the pocket was. "You’re not in any trouble. Nothing that can’t be sorted out between the two of us, anyway. Know what I mean?"

"No, no, Mr McPhee. You’re all right. I’ll pick the wages up on Monday. I’ve got to dash, anyway. I need to look after my gran. She’s getting a bit unsteady on her legs these days…" Kimmy gabbled as she backed away. "I’m applying for carer’s allowance and I can’t do too many hours…I’ll need to check with the Social…"

But Tricky was off the stool and moving swiftly towards her, hands outstretched, heading her off at the door. "My wife’s in a wheelchair, you know…"

"Kimmy! Are you still there?" a familiar voice called from the shop.

"Janice!" Phew! I certainly never thought I’d be glad to see you, thought Kimmy.

"I missed my bus what with all the carry on. And I could do with a separate carrier for my pies while I’m waiting. The rhubarb’s leaking and I don’t want it contaminating my softies."

"Sure, Janice, " said Kimmy gratefully.

After they had repacked the pies, they hurried out of the shop and crossed over towards the bus stop. Fifty yards along, just past Boots, a few smokers puffed away in the doorway of the Crown. Kimmy thought she caught a glimpse of Lesley swaggering drunkenly back inside. She wondered how she’d feel, when she found out that her days of throwing sickies at Begg’s were numbered.

"Did the money come out all right?" asked Janice, anxiously.

"What?"

"All those two pees. The coppers. Did they add up?"

"To be honest I haven’t done the till. I wouldn’t worry about it, anyway. Tricky’s always fiddling the float."

"Kimmy, have you ever thought of getting another job?"

"You mean, leave Begg’s?" said Kimmy. "Duh, yes! But what would I do? There isn’t much in the way of work round here. Especially with the recession."

"I know. It’s just that they’re looking for more helpers at the Sunshine Club."

"Janice, they don’t pay at the Sunshine Club, do they? I’m not on benefits like you. I can’t afford to work for nothing."

"I suppose not. I just thought it would be nice for you, seeing your gran’s there and everything. And I couldn’t help noticing that Tricky…"

"I can handle Tricky, don’t you worry. Putty in my hands."

"That’s good. Anyway, here’s my bus. Nice talking to you, Kimmy."

"Yes, nice talking to you, too, Janice."

"Looks like I’ll see you for my pie on Monday, as usual, then."

"Looks like it."

"Do you think Begg’s will ever stock wholegrain ones though?"

"To be honest I can’t see it, Janice. Not in a month of Sundays. Hey Janice, are you…?"

Kimmy looked up at the bus window, where Janice sat in her favourite seat nearest the driver, laughing and waving as she took a large bite out of a Begg’s meat pie.